I'm Gonna Hide, Hide, Hide My Wings Tonight
by Missmathdork1608
Summary: A summary of ACOTAR and ACOMAF based on the song Angel With A Shotgun by The Cab. MAJOR spoilers for those two books, and mild spoilers for ACOFAS. Title taken from said song.


**This has been prancing around in my head for two months, and I finally completed it. Mild ACOFAS spoilers, but it really isn't very impactful. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _I'm an angel with a shotgun, shotgun, shotgun  
_ _I'm an angel with a shotgun, shotgun, shotgun_

A High Lord flings out a net of warning through the world, a moment before the spell tricked into him comes into effect.

Far away, in a secret cupped in the hands of dreamers, his family listens, open mouthed. A golden-haired female sinks into an armchair, unable to stay standing any longer. A shadowsinger's legs give out beneath him as he collapses to the floor. A commander puts his face in his hands and cries. And a tiny female lifts her chin, and resolves to hold them together until their High Lord comes back.

As long as it takes.

 _Get out your guns  
_ _Battle's begun  
_ _Are you a saint or sinner_

A nineteen-year-old human tells her family to be careful, gives them what she thinks are her last words. She tells the burning sister to stay away from a woodcutter's son, and the gentle sister to keep on growing. And she crosses the Wall,

and the Cursebreaker's story begins.

 _If love's a fight  
_ _Then I shall die  
_ _With my heart on a trigger_

"There you are. I've been looking for you."

The High Lord and the girl. Amarantha's Whore, and the Foolish Human. The most powerful High Lord in Prythian's history, and the catalyst from across the Wall. The half-breed High Lord, and the huntress with an artist's soul. Night Triumphant, and Stars Eternal.

Rhysand, and Feyre.

For this is the story of ages, of epics, of legends to be told on stormy nights and by bedsides. For this is the moment, the beginning, the meeting, the _start_.

 _They say before you start a war  
_ _You better know what you're fighting for_

A human sent away, looking north, north, north. What could have been? What could have been? The words _I love you I love you I love you_ echo in her head.

A winged High Lord imprisoned, thanking the Cauldron that _she_ 's safe, at least _she_ 's away from this giant mess, but also pricked by hope, by longing, by _what if she was my mate? What if? What if? What if?_

 _Well baby you are all that I adore  
_ _If love is what is you need  
_ _A soldier I will be_

She is stunned. Horrified, as she hears the truth of the curse, of the blight, of the monster that rules from a throne Under the Mountain.

A decision.

She will do it for love. She will do it for the millions suffering, and for the millions that will suffer if Amarantha is not stopped. She will fight, and she will win, and she will have her beloved return to her.

 _I'm an angel with a shotgun  
_ _Fighting 'til the war's won  
_ _I don't care if heaven won't take me back_

"Feyre! My name is Feyre!"

A name can be so many things. An introduction. An identifier. A title. A warning. A tool of salvation. The carrier of a life debt. An answer to a question asked for centuries.

A riddle can be just as much. A warning. A harbringer of doom. A tool to mock. And the most precious and unlikely of all — it can be hope.

 _I'll throw away my faith babe  
_ _Just to keep you safe  
_ _Don't you know you're everything I have_

A human stalking a worm twenty-five times her size, risking a broken arm. A mysterious question composed of symbols that make no sense. Every full moon, a new danger. And in between those, she receives a glove of ink from that High Lord, a glove of Illyrian markings wishing her luck and glory in the fight against that queen.

She hates it, of course. But, the High Lord thinks, that does not change the fact he wishes her luck and glory.

 _And I  
_ _wanna live not just survive  
_ _Tonight_

The night before the final trial, hushed expectation hangs heavy in the air, mixed with just the barest bit of hope. But the faeries continue laughing and talking, and the High Lord wanders away, leaving his mate.

The Cursebreaker slips into an alcove with her beloved, to feel alive, to take every advantage, to enjoy this final night —

And he finds them. If emotions were colours, the High Lord would be radiating bright green. But he only clears his throat, and smirks cruelly, and yet —

He saves them. He saves them both, takes the suspicion upon himself from the cruel queen, all for the Cursebreaker's happiness, for his mate's happiness. And, she thinks, maybe she's changing her mind about his motives.

And that night, when he breaks down in the corner of her cell, she tucks away the memory somewhere deep inside her. She listens, and she keeps him from wholly shattering.

 _Sometimes to win  
_ _You've got to sin  
_ _Don't mean I'm not a believer_

Three people on a dais. An ash dagger for each of them.

The first one has blue eyes. Blue as the daytime sky, or what she remembers of it. He begs her. The blood is warm on her hands.

The second one doesn't fight. She recites the words of farewell, and there are screams in the crowd when she dies.

The third . . .

The third is her now-beloved. The High Lord watches with bated breath, watches like all the other faeries in the throne room, on the red marble floor. They watch as she stabs him, as she is punished, is tortured for daring to have this shred of kindness in her heart, to want to save them —

And it breaks him. He makes his move. If she's going to die, he will die with her. _Mate._ He grabs the ash dagger. _Mate._ He lunges. _Mate._ And he is thrown back, he is tortured, but her name echoes in his head, and he knows he's in love, and if he dies with her, it will be a death well spent.

She blurts out the answer to the riddle as her ribs break, and he _feels_ his powers surge inside him, feels the curse shatter.

And then he hears the crack.

Something shreds violently inside his chest and he can't _breathe_ , oh Cauldron he can't breathe, what is this world without her, without all the beauty and light and goodness she is.

But — there, there are the scraps of that bond, and she will not die, not if he can help it, so he _pulls_ on it, helplessly, and he will bring her back, no matter what it takes.

And then his hunter is now the hunted. The High Lord watches as his mate's beloved ( _why_ must it be someone other than him? but if she is happy, then he will be happy) impales the queen, then rips out her throat. He watches as Tamlin steals the kill he had the right to, for killing his men and his mate and for imprisoning him for _five_ decades and for the other unspeakable things she did.

And then Tamlin is bowed over the High Lord's mate, mourning her. And the High Lord knows what must be done.

First Autumn, then Summer, then Winter, then Dawn, then Day, then Night — him — and finally, Spring.

The gift of the seven courts of Prythian. Of rebirth. A second chance at life.

And then she rises again, looking at _her_ beloved with depthless emotion in her eyes, and his heart is breaking and folding in on itself, but she is happy and he will be happy, eventually. Besides, he's returning to that secret cupped in the hands of dreamers. Soon.

He lingers, for a final goodbye. And she speaks to him finally, finally like he isn't a monster, and he wants to tell her, but it hits him, and he winnows away before he does something stupid like claim his mate, the love of his life.

 _And Major Tom  
_ _Will sing along  
_ _Yeah they still say I'm a dreamer_

Three moons have passed.

The High Lord is home. He is with his family. They all cry together, even his Second, and he's taken on his duties immediately, a welcome relief from his memories, even if they return in the darkness. He is the High Lord of the Night Court, and nightmares fall under his domain, but he can't seem to control these ones.

The Cursebreaker is home, or so she thinks. Life is scary and open and so, so senseless and she can't breathe, for fear and for missing someone but she doesn't know who and for her nightmares and for the purpose she lost.

A tether, drawing them together: the bond of souls, of hearts, of minds, of beings. This is what they are: counterparts, puzzle pieces, friends, family, lovers, mates.

And the threads of fate tighten around them, pulling them closer and closer and closer: an artful tapestry of love and despair and war and enemies and long-forgotten objects, and this tapestry is coming to an end, ready to tie off and begin anew. A new world — but this one must end first.

And this — this is the beginning of the end.

 _They say before you start a war  
_ _You better know what you're fighting for_

A refusal. She begs to be saved by _someone, anyone_. And the High Lord hears her call and he answers, in all his fury at what has been _done_ to her. She is diminished, reduced, made _less_ , broken, and the High Lord's rage blinds him. And when he saves her as she asks, he spirits her away to his home.

Shoes are thrown. Hateful words are spoken. And a teasing female voice at the end of a corridor: "Well, _that_ went well." And the Cursebreaker views her inky glove as a shackle, keeping her from happiness.

It is only later that she sees it for what it is: luck and glory and a tether to life, binding her to family and purpose.

 _Well baby you are all that I adore  
_ _If love is what is you need  
_ _A soldier I will be_

The Cursebreaker is trapped in a manor that hides its bars in vines and roses. She breaks, a crack through the very core of her, and the sound of that breaking, that cleaving, echoes across the continent to the High Lord, to her mate.

It is his Third and her friend who stalks through the doorway of that prison, who picks her up and cradles this remnant in her arms, to carry her to safety, to _home_. And it is the Cursebreaker's mate who carries her the rest of the way, who stays by her side as she slumbers, dead to the world.

Turn the page. A new chapter is beginning, of blood and belonging. And it heralds the end of the world as they know it.

 _I'm an angel with a shotgun  
_ _Fighting 'til the war's won  
_ _I don't care if heaven won't take me back_

The High Lord fights for the months that follow: fights to bring her out of her shell, to shatter her choking glass coffin, to show her that he cares. At the dinner, he deals with his Inner Circle's merciless teasing to provide her a harbor, even if she won't realize it yet. He gives her a purpose: protect the innocents, protect his people, protect her sisters. He listens to her, helps her heal, reintroduces her to family and to the pleasures of life and good food.

In doing so, he heals himself.

 _I'll throw away my faith babe  
_ _Just to keep you safe  
_ _Don't you know you're everything I have_

And as for their romance . . .

The ring the Cursebreaker retrieves to test her power belonged to the High Lord's mother, meant to weed out the worthy from the females who might lust after the power and wealth but weren't prepared for the responsibilities of being his equal. The dresses she wears were sewn with her — that is, the female who might capture the High Lord's heart — in mind. She gains the approval of his family, who all try their best to pretend he isn't courting her. In the Summer Court, they learn what the word _jealousy_ means. And after the Summer Court, they learn what the word _flirting_ means.

A story told by bedsides and on stormy nights, yes, but it is one of real people, who laugh and love and awkwardly stumble on their way to happiness in the middle of a war.

 _And I  
_ _Wanna live not just survive_

The mask of the Night Court is a frightful one, and one that displays their full power and might. And the High Lord — oh, the High Lord's power makes the world tremble.

But it does not frighten her.

And on that throne, as his subjects bow to her, as they provide a distraction for the scheming nest of gossips, something clicks; something she thought destroyed long ago.

See, Tamlin laid her down in a pretty glass coffin and put her to sleep every time she jerked awake, screaming. Rhys rescued her, showed her how to wake up, helped her wake up, but she doesn't feel the aftereffects of it until now.

Alive. She's alive, and she's burning. She burns on that throne, with him, and _wants_ , for the first time in ages. Together, they put on quite a show, but they are burning up inside themselves. Fire, cleansing and waking, surges and streams through her.

But too much fire, too suddenly, has some unlisted side effects: words flung like stones. Coming from her, of course, they find their mark.

"Because who would want a mess like you?"

Regret takes over her in less than an instant — as soon as the words leave her mouth, really. But the High Lord won't meet her eyes, and back in Velaris, she waits for him in a chilled, moonlit garden.

He doesn't come.

 _Tonight_

Thousands of glittering stars racing across the sky. Thousands of their counterparts glittering on a dress crafted by a long dead seamstress. There is longing in the air, and there is tenderness, and there is a precipice he fell off long ago, and she is hanging off. Tonight, she falls.

"Of course I'll dance with you. All night, if you wish."

"Even if I step on your toes?"

"Even then."

 _I'm an angel with a shotgun  
_ _Fighting 'til the war's won  
_ _I don't care if heaven won't take me back_

An Illyrian war-camp, with this new, fragile thing between them.

"She's mine. And if any of you lay a hand on her, then you lose that hand. And then you lose your head. And once Feyre is done killing you" — a cat's smirk — "then I'll grind your bones to dust."

And a clearing. In the clearing, a trade: a butterfly for a meeting, songbirds for knowledge, ice for slaughter. And there is an explosion of flame, and temper, and then an understanding between them, tempered with newness and longing.

 _I'm an angel with a shotgun  
_ _Fighting 'til the war's won  
_ _I don't care if heaven won't take me back_

On the banks of a river, a former friend comes to — he thinks — rescue her. She sees it as dragging her back to that cheerful, lovely prison.

But she is not afraid — not once, not for a moment — because she knows her High Lord will be by her side, that he will not let them take her away against her will.

As he tells her, later that night, he would have torn apart the world to get her back. And she acknowledges what neither of them did until now: she would have done the same. It is a truth whispered between long, murmuring kisses and fingers running along wings; a truth that neither of them hear or see, only thinking _distraction_ in different tones of mournful.

 _I'll throw away my faith babe  
_ _Just to keep you safe  
_ _Don't you know you're everything I have_

The High Lord is _taken_ from her, by those Hybern bastards, so she does what she did over the wall.

She hunts down the pieces of filth who took him and slits their throats with the poisoned ash arrows intended for the High Lord. She takes him away to where they will not be hunted down for at least a few hours, and nearly cries when she sees what they have done to his wings, to his beautiful wings.

The High Lord is barely conscious for those hours in the cave, but he listens when she tells the story of her seventeenth summer. He listens, and tucks it away in his heart, to be told with the many stories he wants her to know.

"The High Lord of the Night Court is your mate."

Rage. Frozen mud. Newly healing wings. And a crashing feeling that has nothing to do with falling out of the sky surges through the High Lord: he ruined it. He ruined everything.

Of course, he is proven wrong nine days later: it turns out she needed some time to come to terms with the fact that her love for him is justified. And the affection he receives for the next four days is well worth the wait.

 _And I  
_ _Want to live not just survive_

Velaris is a jewel that has sparkled for eons. Dimly, maybe, but it has sparkled. And to its residents, it is safe; it is home.

All that is destroyed when the soldiers arrive.

It is late evening, the sun kissing the sea, when blood floods the Sidra's waters. When people begin to scream and then go silent.

The Rainbow, that explosion of art and beauty and life, is targeted, and the Cursebreaker loses her shit.

See, there will be legends and epics told of this moment. There will be stories whispered around fireplaces and by bedsides of how their Cursebreaker, their dreamer, took up arms and struck back viciously when her home was attacked. They will tell in hushed voices of the Sidra bending to the Cursebreaker's will, of wolves forged from the water of the city drowning the Hybern soldiers on dry land. They will exclaim in awe when the soldiers that take to the sky are frozen solid by the ice of a court she hasn't set foot in yet.

The Inner Circle of the Night Court is made up of dreamers who are warriors. There is a centuries-old general, the best fighter of the Illyrians; an old, powerful shadowsinger; the Morrigan, who is proficient with both words and blades from five centuries of practice; a creature from another world whose eyes cannot contain her fire-god essence, whose dark power is illusion; the most powerful High Lord to walk the earth and the first one that dreamed, all of them over five hundred years old. And then there's the Cursebreaker, a female a little older than twenty, lacking the experience of her companions, but making up for it with sheer power and drive and defending the Rainbow like nobody's business.

Blood rains. The screams of the soldiers becomes a song in her blood, pounding in time with every swipe of her blade. This is what she is, in the end: someone who protects the good, the innocent; someone who fights tooth and nail for what she believes in; someone who creates her weapons with an artist's precision and uses them with a warrior's ruthlessness; someone who loves and guards and dreams.

In the end, she is also someone who will have to part with this piece of her heart.

 _And I'm  
_ _Gonna hide, hide, hide my wings tonight_

It's _him_. It's her captor. And he came to trade her for the safety of his _people_ , what the _fuck_ was he thinking, why would Lucien agree to this —

But her _sisters_. And her _family_. And her mate's — _their_ Second, who waits for them back in their city.

And she knows what she must do.

One last game. A silent goodbye — tears not of fear, but a promise. _I'll see you soon. Go home._ A broken bond, and it _hurts_ for them both. Blood coating the floor like polish.

And she watches the golden-haired cousin take her sisters, and she sees her mate take his brothers, and she knows they'll be safe.

 _They say before you start a war  
_ _You better know what you're fighting for_

The High Lady gazes out at a previous home and lies through her teeth, already missing her mate and her family, both by blood and by choice (but choice more than blood). She looks north, disguised as fear, but those who matter know it is longing.

The High Lord retreats, helps his family heal; waits for his mate, his equal to return. He prepares for a war that will rock the continent, prepares for the world to shift. He stares south, and all those who see him will know it as raw, unabashed longing.

 _Well baby you are all that I adore  
_ _If love is what you need  
_ _A soldier I will be_

A bond between the High Lady and High Lord, traversing the length of a continent. Hidden promises. Two sisters, kept safe in anticipation of a spy's return. And a dangerous, dangerous game to be played. For the future of the continent, of the world, for the two peoples that occupy it.


End file.
